Sherlock Holmes: the Case of the Vampire Hospital
by Starkreactor
Summary: Sherlock is not dealing well with bordom when a terrified client comes rushing in, looking like he was attacked by vampires. Will the Supernatural finally uproot our great detective? Rated for blood/violence, Holmes/Watson friendship only, movievers
1. My Mind Rebels at Stagnation

I know I should be working on my other stories. I know I'm being bad staying up to work on this. But I think you guys know how it is to have plot bunnies for brains. *sigh* Anyway, not sure why, but I was thinking about Sherlock Holmes earlier, and this story came a hopping my way. I became obsessed. Bad news, this bunny is so demanding I will not be working on my other fic for a bit. Good news: I actually know how this story is going to play out.

So, that being said, this is my first Sherlock fic. I don't know much about the time period, nor have I read as much Sherlock as I'd like, so if you have any constructive suggestions, PLEASE share. I am going to try and do a bit of reasearch though, to make it better.

The game's afoot!

* * *

"My dear Watson, I quite believe that this is one of the most boring days of my existence." Holmes said to the ceiling, lying as he was on his back, draped with his head hanging off of the side of the bed.

"I was afraid I would find you either like this or catatonic. Holmes, you really must get a case." Watson sighed from the doorway, having just arrived at his friend's residence on his way back from visiting a patient. He hadn't checked up on Holmes since his marriage three weeks earlier- there had just been too much to do.

"Mmm, yes. As I have said in the past, my mind absolutely rebels at stagnation." Holmes said pensively, before sitting up abruptly. "I know!" He exclaimed, suddenly turning himself round and hopping off of the bed, his shirt collar falling to the side as gravity was once again affecting him normally. "We should go down to that club and find out if there has been any sign of Miss Adler around."

Watson watched Holmes as he stumbled over to his jacket; knowing full well that Holmes would only go after Irene if he was either drunk or she had done something interesting. By the way Holmes squinted at his coat in an attempt to find the sleeves; Watson knew that the answer was, quite certainly, the former.

"Holmes-"He called, striding over to his friend and helping him over to a chair. "I'm sure Irene has been staying off the map. Now you need to get cleaned up, before a client comes in and finds you like this and you end up without work simply because you got bored."

"Or lonely." Holmes muttered drunkenly, looking sadly at the floor. Watson paused mid movement, looking sadly at his old friend. He wasn't sure what to say. Holmes would just have to get used to his living with Mary.

"Come on." He said, trying to ignore the comment. "Let's get you sober. You can't have drunk that much or you wouldn't be alert." Walking to the windows, Watson flung the thick curtains open, allowing what little sunlight that was outside to enter. Closing his ears to Holmes' drunken protests, Watson proceeded to douse Holmes unceremoniously with cold water, watching as he spluttered into a clearer mind with much protest.

"My good man!" He exclaimed, spitting water onto the already soaked hearth rug. "Was that completely necessary?"

"Yes Holmes." Watson replied, wiping his hands off with a towel. "I quite believe it was."

Holmes huffed impatiently, leaning back in his soaked armchair to light the only thing around him that was dry, his prized pipe. He proceeded to smoke it and glare at Watson, though Watson could tell that Holmes was anything but mad at him. It was more like he was relieved he was there at all.

Being the drinker, and actor, that he was, Sherlock recovered quickly from the effects of the alcohol. By the time the haggard man burst into his sitting room, not only was Holmes himself again, he was also dry and wearing clean clothes.

He and Watson were talking over tea, Watson insisting that he needed to get home, and Holmes insisting that he needed to stay. In the middle of the argument a young man, perhaps thirty or thirty-five years of age came bursting into the room, his eyes wild, his chest heaving, and his skin dirty and cut, as though he hadn't slept or bathed in many days. Watson sprang to his feet in surprise as the man's words began tumbling out in a confused blather.

"She's after me! She's back, she's back." He wrung his hands, talking like a mad man, twisting his fingers so hard around each other that they turned white with strain. "Back…..she's back, backbackback, come to haunt me, come to haunt- won't leave me alone, can't escape……any escape."

Without warning, he threw himself at Holmes' feet and looked up at the detective, eyes darting in fear. "You must help me! You must! Can't run, no place to hide, police won't hear of it, say I'm mad. Tried to take me to the asylum. But that's where she was! That is her lair, her den….the den, mustn't go back to the den, mustn't go back to sleep- never sleep. Never….nevernever." He shook his head fiercely, back in forth. "Nevernevernevernenver…."

Suddenly the man's head dropped to the floor and he lay still, the previous mad energy that had been animating his body nowhere to be found. Watson crouched down next to the wretched figure and placed two fingers to his throat, worriedly checking for a pulse.

Holmes, thoroughly interested, crouched down across from Watson, awaiting the doctor's assessment.

"He's gone into shock, which decayed rapidly into a dead feint. Mad or not, this man was truly terrified of something."

Holmes nodded, observing the figure. "Yes, or some_one_. A female by the way he was speaking, and not his wife either, perhaps a lover?" Holmes muttered to himself, doing naturally what his friend had only started to pick up after years of living with him.

"An escapee from the mental hospital?" Watson guessed, looking up to be greeted by Holmes' intent stare at the man before him.

"No, unless he has found a way to remove the mark all mental patients bear. They are quite often tattooed on the back of the right wrist, especially if they are dangerous. This man has no such mark. I believe it was terror that drove him to his current state. He has not slept in a week at least.

"Well." Watson sighed, clapping Holmes on the shoulder. "I do believe that your boredom has been cured."

"Indeed Watson." He said, looking up to meet the physician's eyes, his own glittering with the thrill of a puzzle. "That it has."

* * *

Hooked? Or bored? I quite intend to continue writing this for my own enjoyment, but if I am writing for someone else as well, it would be great to know! Thanks =)


	2. Bram Stoker

I know this is short, sorry. I will try and make the chapters longer. In the meantime, thank you so much for all of the alerts, and the reviews I did get. It means a lot. I really hope I can pull this off, I am not used to writing detective stuff, let alone Holmes, so I am really hoping I don't roally screw this up. Thanks for the feedback, I really appreciate it. =)

* * *

"Holmes, come over here and look at this." Watson was bending near the detective's latest client, worried that he wasn't waking up or responding at all very well. They had moved him over to the bed when Holmes brought to Watson's attention that the man's neck and shoulder was bandaged.

Holmes joined his friend and observed what the doctor had found. "Very peculiar. If I am not mistaken, those bite marks look-"

"Human." Watson nodded, observing an angry ring of puncture wounds in the side of the unfortunate man's neck. The bites were also on his upper shoulders when Watson loosened his collar to look. "The dressing was also not done by any licensed physician I would approve of. No wonder this man passed out, fright was combined with-"

"Heavy blood loss, a blow to the head, and a laceration to the right wrist. Possibly a suicide attempt."

Watson sighed impatiently. "Do you have to do that?"

"Do what?" Holmes asked innocently.

Letting the matter drop, Watson turned back to his patient, further inspecting him. "Well, your diagnosis was correct, he has a mild concussion, his blood pressure is dangerously low," Watson placed a hand on the man's forehead, pausing for a moment "And he's running a temperature. Frankly, with the fright he's had, I am amazed he's still alive at all. The low blood pressure may have actually protected his heart."

"Regardless, what interests me is why he was frightened, and how he came to be in such a sorry state." Holmes murmured, arms folded across his chest as he thought.

"Yes- you said something about a woman, but not his wife?" Watson said, gathering supplies to clean and re-bandage his patient.

"Yes, note the wedding ring, if it had been his wife, he would have taken it off. If he had been having an affair he would have taken it off as well, so this woman in question could be a relative, or a rejected lover. From the way the bite marks follow his throat, I am more inclined to conclude lover."

Watson nodded, working to try and repair the damage to the man's throat. "So blighted lover, but I have never seen another human being bite someone like this before. If I didn't know better, I would say some kind of animal did this, but the jaw structure is wrong."

"Watson, have you done much reading lately?"

Watson sat back, giving his friend an exasperated look. "I don't think now is the time Holmes."

"I beg to differ." The detective argued, his eyes never leaving the man's throat. "Tell me, are the edges of the wound white or stressed, particularly on the neck?"

"I did notice that, yes. But it is not uncommon for flesh to be stressed after being bitten. The white is merely destroyed flesh where the blood is now unable to reach in order to repair."

"Tell me Watson, what kind of action would create that kind of wound, and have you met our good friend Bram Stoker?"

Watson did a double take, confused by Holmes' sudden switch in subject. "The only thing I can think of that would do such a thing would be a sucking action. As for Stoker, I haven't the faintest idea what this has to do with-" Watson suddenly stopped. "You don't mean to tell me you are blaming _Vampires_ for this??"

"The facts are leading me to conclude something of the kind, yes, though nothing like Stoker's creation of course. There are mental illnesses where one believes that one must survive on blood. The cases are few, but there have been documented instances in which an individual has been bitten by someone afflicted with Vampiric tendencies. Anyway, I believe it is time to go out. Let us get your friend to the hospital; we have some place to be."

"Holmes, this man really should not be moved."

"Very well, you stay and care for him. I won't be more than an hour." With that, Sherlock disappeared, not letting Watson any time to protest. The physician rolled his eyes and focused back on his patient.

* * *

Still ok? I am trying to stay true to character and time-period, stuff I don't usually tackle. I'm used to either more modern stories or stories in other worlds. So bear with me =)


	3. Blood Bond

This is a bit longer, hope you enjoy!

* * *

Holmes hailed a carriage and made good time to his destination, arriving soon at the Asylum strategically placed on the outskirts of town. Paying the cabby, he headed inside, noticing with a snort how the driver hurried away as fast as his horse would go. \

Commoners and their superstitions.

Finding a seated guard nearby, Holmes approached him, his eyes swiftly taking in his surroundings in a fraction of a second.

"Good day sir, I was wondering if you could help me find someone."

The guard looked up, his face worried. "You a detective? Finally? Tell me quick, what kind of damage has she done?"

"So you were aware that a patient was missing and you neglected to inform the public?" Holmes accused, but then continued before the offended guard had time to defend himself. "Very wise on your part, as a young woman with vampiric tendencies is better not talked about. I dare say panic would ensue. Tell me, what is this patient's name?"

The guard's mouth fell open, but he rapidly recovered his wits, standing quickly. "I think you 'ad better talk to her guard."

"She had her own guard?" Holmes inquired, walking alongside the man as he led him through the asylum corridors.

"Oh yes. She was getting so out of 'and we had to take her to an isolated wing. We were afraid that she would infect the other patients. Min' you, the guards were afraid of her too, so we picked the only one who didn' seem affected. 'E took to stayin with her all the time."

"No shift change, didn't this man have a family?"

"Not outside the building sir, she was 'is only kin."

"By kin you mean…."

"Sister. Sounds like a head injury and the loss of her parents at an early age is what drove 'er over the edge. Mind, jus rumors they are. But 'er brother admitted 'er and then joined 'imself, tryin' to keep an eye on 'er. Said it would be the only way she'd ever get better. That was long before I ever joined though sir. Here we are."

Holmes looked up to find a tall man in a guard uniform standing listlessly by an empty cell. The wing was obviously not used often, and Holmes quickly took note of the fungus and lichen growing on the walls.

"Peter, we have a detective here at last, sounds like your sister is enjoyin' her run of the outside. You sure she's comin' back?"

The man gazed calmly at his fellow guard. When he spoke, his voice was low and calm, but held a dangerous tone. "She'll come back. She always returns to me."

The guard gave Holmes a look. "Very well, I'll leave you two to work things out; I have duties to attend to."

With that he hurried off, having no inclination what so ever to remain in the ominous south wing.

Holmes and Peter stood taking stock of each other for a very long time, neither saying anything vocally, but a silent challenge passing between them all the same. Lesser minds would have been unable to stand the tension running between them as they tried to get past the defenses each had put up, expressions stony, betraying nothing. The encounter could be likened to two lions sizing each other up before the death match.

Peter was the first to break the silence. "So, my sister has finally shown herself, hmm?"

Holmes answered without expression. Peter would get no information out of him that he did not wish to share. "Yes. She got hungry, evidently."

Peter grinned devilishly, allowing Sherlock a good view of his unnaturally sharp teeth. "Yes. She does that. But she'll be back. Evelina never did stray far from my side. We have always shared a very strong bond."

"If you are so connected to your sister, why not convince her to stay in the asylum? It seems you have done very little to ensure her recovery. How long has she been here again?" Holmes asked, cocking his head as though thinking very hard.

"Long enough." Peter answered teasingly, advancing on Holmes. "But like I said. She'll return. Can't rush medicine."

"Indeed." Holmes said, matching Peter's advance with a move backwards, his hand brushing against the wall before hiding nervously in his pocket. The man gave a low chuckle, clearly pleased that he had succeeded in intimidating his target.

Peter circled Holmes like a predator sizing up his prey, his jaw working as he looked the detective up and down.

"I do believe I have all I need." Holmes said firmly, looking Peter in the eye as he came full circle, stopping inches away from his face.

"I will see you again, Sherlock Holmes." Peter said, grinning again. Then, silently, he retreated back to the door of the cell, crouching just out of sight.

Watson was just getting the man to revive when Holmes returned. "Ah, Sherlock. Anything from your excursion?"

"Quite, but I think we had better consult with our client before anything else. I am not certain he will stay conscious for very long." Holmes observed, crouching down to look at the ill man at eye level.

"Your client." Watson muttered, still slightly annoyed by Holmes' refusal to let the plural go.

"Good day my dear fellow. Terribly sorry to bother you, but by the way you came rushing into my study I got the feeling you had something on your mind."

The man blinked slowly, before sitting up abruptly and grabbing Holmes' collar roughly, as though he were drowning. Watson started forward, prying the man gently away, his fingers at the man's wrist, worried that his racing pulse would take him under again.

"Easy, easy my good man. You are not yet ready to get up. Just lay back and tell me and my friend what you came here for." The doctor soothed, easing the weakened body back against the pillows.

"Yes…..yes…..must rest, while possible. Might be safe here." He muttered, eyes drifting closed before snapping open again with renewed vitality. "NO! Mustn't sleep, mustn't dream! The bites." He snapped, pawing jerkily at his neck. "The bites will continue. Must not continue." He insisted, the frantic movement of his arm finally tiring him enough to lie still.

Holmes studied the man carefully, enunciating clearly when he spoke. "Jonathan."

The man's head snapped towards Holmes, his fevered gaze latching onto the detective.

"Why are you here? Who has bitten you?"

"She- sshe comes ccomes in the night." He stammered, covering his throat with a hand, as though he could protect it from past damage.

"Did she find you in your bed?"

The man's head jerked back, staring at the ceiling. "Yes- bed, always bed. Never alone. Always hovers. Never alone."

"Jonathan." Holmes said, commanding the man's attention again. "Where is your wife?"

"Away- she's away. Gotta visit her sister. Gone for months. Won't be back. Can't find out. No. She mustn't find out." Jonathan hugged himself and shivered.

"Not an affair Holmes, are you certain?" Watson said, raising an eyebrow and looking at the detective.

"If it was an affair then Evelina must have turned on him in the middle of it. The man is scared half to death, you said yourself doctor."

"Evelina? So you know who it is?"

"Indeed. But later." He nodded towards the fading man on the couch. "We need to entrust this man to a hospital and his wife should be informed. I want him to be watched while at the hospital as well, though I doubt she will look for him there. Watson, would Mary terribly mind if you spent the night in my company? I really could use your help."

"She is going to want an explanation." Watson hinted, fairly used to his friend's lack of information but realizing that his wife wasn't.

"Watson, are you not the man of the house? Tell your good lady that duty calls and you shall return to her at the soonest possible moment."

Watson glared at Sherlock. "Holmes, she is not my good lady. She is not a friend or a thing to be put on the shelf. She is not inferior to me. She is my _wife_. And it is high time you come to respect that."

Holmes nodded, getting up from his position by the couch. "Yes, of course. Forgive me. I shall go on my own."

Watson clenched his jaw, wanting to blame Holmes for his adventurous inclinations, but knowing that it wasn't entirely his fault. If John was to tell the truth, which he didn't intend to, he had missed the half-crazed life his friend led. He loved Mary with all his being, but there was a part of him still very much in love with the hunt. He didn't think he could ever let that go. Fortunately, Mary seemed to understand that even better than he did.

"Very well. What do you need me to do?"

Holmes' face brightened immediately. "Excellent. Here is the plan."

Watson tried to ignore the fact that it was obvious Holmes knew he would snap all along.

* * *

So, my good readers. What do you think?


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